Making It
by lyricalmadness
Summary: Blaine Anderson is the inaugural winner of the Make It or Break It songwriter contest.  Kurt Hummel is an ex-boy band member turned producer assigned to Blaine's first CD.
1. Make It or Break It

**A/N: I based the premise of this story off of the Canadian television program called _Instant Star_ which I watched religiously when I was in high school. It is not going to follow the show plot point by plot point but it will have enough similarities for me to give credit where credit is due. Most of the canon characters will appear in some context but probably won't exist in the same way that they do on the show. The songs used in this part are "Honey, Let Me Sing You a Song," by Matt Hires and "Beautifully," by Jay Brannan. I would suggest you listen to both songs just because they are wonderful. This is definitely not beta'd so any and all mistakes are mine. Let me know if you spot something and I will go back through and edit. Reviewers are my heros and make me want to write so if you feel compelled to reply to my post, please do. I would love to know what you think. If not, thats cool too. As always, thank you for reading!**

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><p>It's the white noise – the shuffling, murmuring of faceless people, the steady buzz of sound equipment, the hum of the lights, and the bright click of his footsteps as he takes center stage – that is his undoing. Fear bubbles up acidic and sharp from the pit of his stomach and he can't seem to swallow around the lump lodged in his esophagus. He inhales sharply, hand rising to block the glare of the too bright artificial lights, as he sinks down onto the black stool. Sweat traces a slow path between his shoulder blades and beads on his forehead. His hands shake as he settles the beat up guitar across his lap. It shields him like a baby blanket protecting him from the demons of the past and the fears of the future. He is comfortable like this – right leg balancing on the bottom rung of the stool, guitar cradled against torso, shoulders falling forward (screw proper posture), hands finding home on the strings. Eyes dart to the wings of the stage quickly taking in the barely there silhouettes of the people waiting for him before returning to the sea of unknown people and closing. He inhales slowly through his nose until his lungs fill to capacity, hesitates, and then releases the burning air in a steady swoosh. He repeats; willing his pulse to following the slowness of the established rhythm. Even before his eyes opens, his fingers begin to shape the opening chords in a mess of muscle memory and the need to play his song within the vastness of white noise. It's a slow song, a ballad, which hangs heavy of the edge of the stage in a hazy ebb and flow of notes and slide of fingers. It scares him how easy it is to let the song take over. How it throbs through his tendons and ligaments leaving him breathless, rejuvenated, and wanting more. It shudders through him electric, hot, pulsating potential energy that needs to be expressed, needs release. So he opens his eyes, smiles, and starts to sing.<p>

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><p>It starts with a conversation, a telling of a plan, really, during a momentary lapse in the B-movie zombie marathon that he and one of his best friends were partaking in on a Friday night near the middle of May. He is currently sprawled face down on the cream carpet too lazy to move the few feet necessary to switch to a new movie ignoring the looping measures of the theme song playing in the background of the menu screen.<p>

"So what happened between you and Charlie?" Asked the boy stretched out on the couch, wholly black converse draped off the end of the couch, idly throwing left over popcorn cornels at his back.

He sighed. "What do you mean, Nick?"

"She has been rather . . . touchy lately," Nick shrugged tiring of his popcorn attack and refocusing his attention on the glossy pages of _Paste _magazine.

"And you automatically assume that it has to do with me." He rolled over ignoring the crunch of popcorn under his back. "Nothing happened between Charlotte and me. Thank you very much."

They fall back into a comfortable sort of silence. One that is almost a necessity for a lazy Friday night spent with someone who knows you better than you know yourself. He throws an arm over his eyes and refocuses on drowning out the annoying, too loud theme music flowing from the television and the steady swish of turning pages.

"Blaine," Nick called, all long, loose syllables, tone fluctuating as he draws out the name. The boy on the floor hums his response. "So you really don't think that it is weird that she's not here tonight?"

"No," he says slowly cracking an eye open and staring up at the boy on the couch who had twisted onto his stomach. "She is probably busy."

He buries himself in the comfortable familiarity of the restored silence. Nick shuffles on the couch before wandering into the kitchen in long, lazy strides and then returning with a cold soda gripped in his hands.

A toe is shoved under is ribs. "Go away Nick."

"What'cha humming?" Nick didn't move except to wiggle his toes, nudging them harder into his side.

"A chord progression that is stuck in my head," Blaine shrugged swatting at the offensive leg that is still wedged between the floor and his side.

"So here is the deal," the toe disappears only to be replaced by the whack of the magazine hitting his chest. "Turn to page fifty-three, please."

Blaine squints in a half-hearted glare, "Was that really necessary?"

"Yes. Now shut up." He said, eyes rolling. "So this is what I am thinking."

"I really don't think that I need to or want to know what you are thinking." Blaine said rolling onto his stomach.

Nick nudged his side again. "Page fifty-three, now, please."

He casually flipped through the magazine stopping at some of the bright advertisements. "Why?"

"Blaine, just do it." Nick paused until he heard the rapid succession of turning pages hands automatically rising to quell any sort of foreseeable argument. "Before you say anything, it is not American Idol. It's a contest for singer/song writers in which the winner ends up with a three CD recording contract with Major Riff Records whom, if I may add, is known for finding up and coming indie artists."

Blaine sat up, legs folding underneath him, shoulders squaring, magazine held taught between two clenching hands. He remained quiet, eyes darting over the black type face, jaw dropping slightly as he processes, "Why . . . why do you even consider this a good idea?"

Nick shrugged, falling back onto the couch, eyes closing. "Music is your life. You are so incredibly talented. Take your pick."

"Come on, man, you can't be serious." He said, scrubbing a hand down his face, the magazine flopping limply to the ground. "What record company is going to take a sixteen-year-old seriously?

"What do you have to lose?" Nick asked, settling into the couch.

"My dignity," he snorted, "Or, maybe, what little bit of social standing that I have been able to scrap together at school."

"Nope, not good enough. Besides you could do with a kick in the ass every now and then. Keeps you grounded." He said, hands rising to dismiss the excuses immediately. "Look, all you have to do is show up and sing. Life goes on whether or not you make it the next round. It's really not a big deal."

"You are not going to let me say no, are you?" He groaned, flopping onto his back once more.

"My plan actually involved kidnapping you," Nick shrugged, casually picking at his cuticles, "but Charlie thought you should be informed prior to next Saturday. Hence, this conversation we are having."

"I hate you, Duvall. And Charlie, too," He sighed his defeat.

"You love me." He grinned making his way to finally change the DVD. "So are you going to tell me what you and Charlie are fighting about?"

Blaine groans and the taller boy laughs until the dramatic swells of opening music drowns him out.

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><p>He bounces. It's that knee jerking, finger drumming, lip-gnawing kind of frantic energy that drives everyone crazy but even the glaring threats of the people in his vicinity (friends included) does nothing to stop him from moving. If he stops, he will be sick. Again. He already has become intimately familiar with the tile pattern in Major Rift's lobby bathroom. A repeat performance is really not necessary.<p>

"Dude," Charlie muttered, red hair piled messily on top of her head, hand with bitten finger nails pressing insistently into his knee in an attempt to still the staccato beat of his heel slapping the ground, "You need to chill the fuck out, Blanderson."

"I really have no idea what you are talking about, Carson." He said, eyes following another person as they disappear into the conference turned performance room. "I am so incredibly chill, I am practically a freezer."

Nick snorted from his right side never looking up from his game of Angry Birds that he has been playing studiously, full of muttered threats and curses, for the past couple of hours."

"Have I told you guys how much I hate you lately?" Blaine asked his silent friends as his stomach gave another turn. His friends chorused their affirmative without sparing him a look. "Good, I just want to reiterate that fact and inform you that, if I were a sociopath, you both would be dead by now."

The only thing he remembers about the first round of auditions – besides the sleek, monochromatic décor of the bathroom – is that they pass him through to the next round with a unanimous vote. He was also starving.

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><p>Going home, doing homework, assimilating back into his real life, if only for a short time, is somewhat anticlimactic.<p>

But then the next round arrives and, Jesus Christ, is he still nervous. Nick and Charlie ban coffee after the second round with Nick muttering, "Six cups, Blaine, six cups. Was that really necessary?"

And Charlie threatening to kill him dead if he didn't sit still for once. So he resorts to energy drinks which leave his nerves singing fire and his heart beating so fast that he can't breathe properly. He crashes hard afterwards and they ban all artificial stimulants for the next and every round after that. A Blaine preparedness pack is implemented and organized with bottles of water, toothpaste (he can tell you exactly how many steps and how many seconds it takes to get to the bathroom), and snacks (jelly beans, red vines, skittles) for his friends. It becomes a routine: sit in the modern, geometric orange and chrome hallway for less and less time, sing, and, then, reinsert himself into his regular life. Rinse. Repeat. But then school ends and there are endless days spent sitting at the beach with his guitar planning for a future that hasn't even been secured yet. It is too easy to picture life after. Too easy to contemplate how much his life has changed and will change. His friends try to tell him not to get his hopes up because there are so many fucking talented people that probably deserve to win more than he does but he is sixteen, almost seventeen, and so close to winning. Then the semifinal round creeps in and he cannot sit still enough to sleep so he plays and plays until his fingers ache and then walks to the beach with his guitar strapped to his back and watches the day blush awake in the horizon. He knows that he looks like hell when he walks into Major Rift that day (Nick also tells him so as a form of greeting when he slides into the car) but, for once, his body is still. There are no unnecessary trips to the bathroom before he slips into the performance room, guitar in hand, and a smile on his face. And he sings. He feels it tingling in his finger tips, cursing through his veins, joyous, up-tempo, and possibly a little frantic (honey let me sing you a song / and listen to my words as they come out wrong / but don't run away, run away, this time). This feeling, all potential energy crackling through his body, is what he wants to remember regardless of the outcome. He is exhausted by the time he walks out of the room with the judges' comments ringing in his ears (music has such infectious energy, there is such a maturity to your lyrics that was not expected in a person your age, we are looking forward to seeing you in the finals). Nick and Charlie straighten from their slumped positions as soon as he crashes through the double doors. He stops and stares at them and considers their anxious foreheads with lines etched deep from furrowed eye-brows, the tightness around their eyes as they squint in order to assess the damage, and the barely contained excitement that ripples through their faces.

"Well," Nick drawled, hands rising to press into his shoulders, grounding him, "what's the verdict?"

"God, what am I suppose to tell my parents?" He breathed, words tumbling together, arms hanging heavy by his side, guitar leaning against the wall temporarily forgotten. "Fuck."

"Care to elaborate, Blanderson?" Her words softened by the hand placed between his shoulder blades. Soothing in its weighty warmth.

"I never thought I would get this far so I never told them but I think I need to tell them before the finals, don't you think?" He rambled. "Oh God. Maybe, I can wait and tell them only if I win and then deal with it."

"Whoa, wait, cease talking." Nick said breaking through his dialogue hands slipping to clutch as his biceps shaking him slightly in the process. "You are through to the finals?"

He blinks. "Yes."

"So you are going to be singing on stage at the Orpheum in two weeks for a chance at a record deal." Charlie repeated staring up at him, gray eyes wide.

"I am." He said, slowly, an eye-brow quirking up before drawing down into a frown. "My parents are going to kill me."

The moment of cognizance comes with owlish eyes and a slackened jaw. "I am singing in the finals at the Orpheum in two weeks."

Nick and Charlie grin and nod simultaneously, "Yes, you are."

"God, I am going to be sick," is the only thing that slips out of his mouth before he is running the fifty-four and a half steps to the bathroom.

His friends are waiting outside the bathroom with a bottle of water and a tube of toothpaste when he finally emerges.

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><p>There are two empty seats in the audience at the Orpheum Theater two weeks later when he peeks around the heavy, red velvet curtains and looks out at the crowd settling into their seats for the evening. He didn't really expect anything else but the actual evidence is much harder to swallow than merely the knowledge of their lack of support. The curtains swish shut as he turns away from the stage. Feet pull him down the darkened maze of hallways that winds through the backstage of the theater until he is alone and can slide down the cool wall and burry his face in his hands. Brian and Elaine Anderson are people governed by tradition and their only son, with his hot pink Wayfarers and his love for the arts, did not fit in their preconceived notions about his life. They did not yell when he explained about his participation in the Make It or Break It competition over grilled Alaskan Salmon, brown rice, and steamed vegetables. The Andersons do not yell. They lecture and he listens to his father ramble on about family image and how his ultra-conservative overseas clients are going to react when they find out that his only son (and heir to the Anderson Corporation) is pursuing an alternative lifestyle while still in high school. He watches as his father drags his fingers over his eyes and downs the rest of his whiskey in one long drag before leaving the dinner table, chair clattering to its side, and retreating to his study. The slamming of the study door and the sharp clink of half finished dishes being cleared by his mother marks the definite end of the conversation. Not another word was said about the potential recording contract until the Wednesday before the finale when his father called him into his study to inform him that signing any sort of contract will result in the forfeit of any and all support from the Anderson family upon completion of high school. There were other stipulations as well but that was the most important one. He was dismissed by a shuffle of papers and left, sparing one last look at the man (black hair graying around the temples, stern frown lines bracketing a mouth that looked unnatural when he smiled, thin wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose) who was only a father in name. His mother, with her brunet hair knotted on top of her hair and diet thin body hidden beneath a boxy black dress, stood rigid, painted mouth quivering, as he passed her and headed up the stairs to his room. A body sliding down the wall startles him back into the present. The wall vibrates cool beneath his cheek when he finally lets his head tip to the side and eyes open.<p>

"They didn't come." His voice is rough even in his own ears.

"I know," she said reaching out to entangle their fingers. "I'm sorry."

He nods, swallows hard, and releases her hand. "How much longer?"

"About fifteen minutes." She replied wrapping her arms around her knees. Gray eyes following him as he pushes onto unsteady legs before offering his hand.

He smiles and pulls her to her feet. "It's time to face the music."

Arms brush with every other step or so as they retrace their steps in silence with only the rattle of the over the top bass line (probably belonging to the melodramatic, Jesse St. James) making its way into the deserted corridors.

"Hey, Blaine," she stops him with a hand to his arms right outside the greenroom. "I know that it is kind of last minute but will you play my so – Beautifully – tonight?"

It's his newest song. He finished it just before he started this whole Make It or Break It quest of self discovery or whatever you want to call it as a way to voice his confusion and, even more so, as an apology.

"Are you sure, Charlie?" He asked closing his eyes against the look of hurt that had chiseled across her face and sank achy and hard into his bones on that night that he sang it to her.

He hasn't played it since; although, the rhythm sneaks its way into his fingertips especially when his mind is pre-occupied. A certain kind of sadness, or maybe regret, still haunts her face, eyes swimming in watery tides of grays, when caught unguarded and it makes him want to love her so much. But he can't at least in the way that she needs. A smile works slowly over her features, softening, rearranging into something that is sweetly familiar. It's a smile that he has come to rely on and, maybe, one that he has unconsciously taken advantage of.

She sighs, a full bodied release of air, before tipping her forehead against his bicep. "I know that I said that it was too personal for you to perform. But, Blaine, you have to know that you are amazing and that song is so incredibly you. How could I possibly stop you from singing something that is a part of you?"

He brushes a thumb across her cheekbone. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know." She straightens, eyes crinkling as she grins at him. "Come on, Blainers, let's go win this thing."

Nick and Charlie don't say anything as he bounces to the rhythm of his heart flipping between his stomach and his throat. They gather around him – a solid presence anchoring him against the swirling motion of too bright lights, humming energy, and rolling applause. Then its time and they are announcing his name and his feet need to move but his brain is not communicating to his limbs and he doesn't know what to do. A firm hand settles between his shoulder blades and pushes him into motion. He trips onto the stage but its ok because he is there and it does not feel like the end. So he pulls himself onto the stool, takes one last deep breath, opens his eyes, and sings.

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><p>There is a predictable tension when he files back onto the stage completely spent but happy. He is not alone this time; instead, he takes his place with the five other finalists shuffling with nervous energy. They link hands in solidarity, resigned to the fact that they cannot do anything more, as they wait in the buzzing white noise laughing at the host's attempts to relieve the tension on the stage.<p>

"Ladies and gentlemen, the inaugural winner of Major Rift's Make It or Break It songwriter competition walking away with a three CD recording contract is . . ." The host's amplified voice echoes over the audience's tangible intake of air. The pause lingers weighty and harsh as the host tares through the sealed envelope and reads over the results. "Blaine Anderson."

The world erupts and he is swallowed alive.

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><p>He doesn't breathe again until he finds a quiet booth (at least slightly quieter) that he can curl into and sort out the jumbled events that took place between shaking the President of Major Rift, Shelby Corcoran's, hand in the blizzard of confetti and now with big screens looping the video montage of his journey to the finals and the room pulsating hot to the thick beat of dance music. It's disorienting, this feeling that everything is actually going right and he doesn't quite know how he is supposed to react. He doesn't have much practice with things going according to plan. One thing he does know is that he cannot stop smiling. It makes his face hurt and reduces him to an inarticulate babbling mess (not that he has ever been entirely concise and eloquent) that is only enhanced by the ache of exhaustion that has settled into his joints and clouded his mind. The couple (2, 3, 4 he isn't quite sure anymore) glasses of champagne that he has had in celebration (underage, be damned) manifests in drooping eyelids and a world that he has to swim through in fuzzy, slow-motion strokes.<p>

A warm body slides into the booth leaning heavy into his side. "Hey Rock Star, how are you doing?"

The warm timber vibrates through his body and his head lulls on the back cushion of the booth as he contemplates the spoken words. "'M tired, Nicky."

"I know." He said slipping out of the booth and pulling the smaller boy to his feet. "But I have been given permission to take you home now, Cinderella. You ready?"

He nods shuffling a few steps forward. "Where's Charlie?"

"She had to go but she told me to tell you that she is very proud of you." He answered slithering them through the thinning crowd towards the door.

The cool outside air hits him like a soothing balm when they finally step outside leaving the encompassing heaviness of the building. It stings his cheeks but he no longer feels like he has to tread the air the way he would paddle through water.

"I sang her song tonight." He whispered partly to himself and partly to the boy helping him settle securely into the passenger seat. "It scares me."

The worn head rest is solid beneath his spinning head and he can feel it in his stomach when Nick accelerates into the late night traffic.

"What scares you?" Nick murmured weaving his way through the lines of cars heading towards Santa Monica.

He closes his eyes, tips his forehead against the cool glass, and loses himself in the rhythm of heading home. "I'm gay, Nick."

He exhales a slow release of pent up air that burned through his chest cavity, and lets the silence consume him.

It's a while later, after the car has slowed to a creep in the persisting traffic, that Nick finally spares him a glance and offers a crooked smile. "I know, Blaine, and it's going to be ok."

A smile stretches across his face and his body vibrates in the way that neon lights do when lighting up the night sky. Maybe this is what tomorrow feels like, he thinks, as he drifts in the layers between consciousness and dreams.


	2. Beautifully

**A/N: So I fail at getting things out in a timely matter but, hopefully, the next part will be up in a weeks time unless I get distracted. I am really good at getting distracted. This part once again features the song "Beautifully," by Jay Brannan; however, I did change the words at the beginning of this part so that the characters could have a little rougher version to work with. Also, I was never into the whole boy band thing (couldn't even think of a song that was sung by a boy band) so I stole the song "Pick Up the Pieces," from the show Instant Star which this story is based on. All of the structures that are described are form my mind and my mind alone. They are not supposed to represent anything; although, the cove is one modeled after a small beach near San Luis Obispo, CA. The streets and junctions used are accurate; however, stores and building have shifted around for the purposes of this story. I have spent a total of eleven days in Santa Monica but I am trying to keep things accurate. If I have made any big, glaring mistakes please let me know. This story is not beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading.**

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><p>Major Rift Records is a blocky building that sprawls the corner of Melrose Avenue and La Brea Avenue in West Hollywood. A blood orange façade slashes boldly, almost flamboyantly, across the front of the build and curvy chrome lettering hangs over the black tinted double doors. Sandwiched between the Bodhi Tree New Age Bookstore and Fred Segal, it clashes unceremoniously, almost whimsically, with the other brash storefronts that meander up and down the length of the infamous street. Two palm trees stood sentinel outside the flashily pretentious building whose exterior gives away to a reception area full of modern textures and the juxtaposition of black on white which jars cool appreciation from visitors. A tall, waifish woman, blonde hair pulled tight into a harsh bun and clingy a-symmetrical cut dress, stationed behind the swirling black and white marble desk beckons them to wait with one raised, perfectly manicured finger. Her smile is warm and laughter genuine when she finishes her call and waves them through with a few murmured words of welcome. They pass from the aloof submissiveness of the lobby into the split-level hospitality room which, seemingly, hums with a certain controlled chaos. He pauses just inside of the door which closes with a whispered swoosh behind him and lets his eyes tumble over the open space– mapping, planning, absorbing. A pair, sprawled across a blood orange sofa tucked away in the far corner, laughs loud echoing over the flux of conversation as it bends around the room. He watches as the lanky red head picks out a staccato beat on the Gibson resting casually in his lap and the stocky blond to the right mimics a fractious air drum solo, complete with a symbol crash, with a pair of chopsticks. A girl, hair spiky and aqua streaked, a silver loop through her bottom lip, dances over to join the pair on the couch, bottles of water clutched in her hand. It is then, with the constant flow of people, that he realizes it is not a buzz of organized chaos but creativity that crackles into the pulse of the room. He feels at home in this room.<p>

"Dude," Nick shifts, shoulder colliding with his hard enough to ache dull for a few moments, "are you going to remain standing here or run because, evidently, moving forward is not even option C in this scenario."

"Shut up," he muttered sparing a cursory glance at the grinning boy before pushing off into the stream of people and sinking down onto an unoccupied over-stuffed couch near the stairs which lead to the loft like row of glass fronted offices.

"There's no need to snap." He said, hands rising in mock defeat. "I'm just trying to make us not look like creepers."

Blaine rolls his eyes, hands running up and down the length of his thigh. "Your kindness astonishes me."

Nick shrugs, his own fingers drumming a jerky rhythm against the arm of the couch. "Why so nervous, Rock Star?"

"I don't – "he started words stuttering awkwardly, "This is what I have always wanted and I don't know what I would do if it didn't work out."

"Touché," Nick smiled gazing at Blaine in contemplation, head tipping to the side. "I understand how much you want this, you know I do, but promise me one thing." Blaine shifts under his direct gaze, incisors worrying the tender skin of his bottom lip before sucking in a deep breath and meeting his gaze. "Promise me that you won't change yourself to fit with what they want because the Blaine Anderson that I have known for all of my rememberable life is kind of incredibly special."

"Rememberable is not even a real word, idiot." He said ducking his head in embarrassment. "However, I will kill myself before the man or in this case, woman, changes me. I swear."

"That's taking it a little far, don't'cha think?" Nick asked, eyebrows pitching towards his hairline, "But it will work."

It is his laughter, this time, that makes people jump and slide curious, slightly amused, looks his way but he pays them no notice; instead, he redirects his gaze to the partial level above him in time to see Shelby Corcoran, sleek and authoritative in a form fitting black dress, and a Latina woman push through the glass door and onto the platform. The Latina, all bright red lips, flowing inky curls, and gauzy, see through blouse, gesticulates wildly as she and Shelby make their way down onto the main level never stopping their perusal of the think manila folder splayed open in their hands.

"Are you shitting me?" The Latina muttered stopping in front of the couch, Nick and Blaine rising in greeting. "He's a hobbit stuck in some weird cross-generational vortex of 1950s grandpa chic and preppy hipster. I can't work with this, Shelby."

He blinks once, twice, mouth falling unhinged, hand coming up to run unconsciously over his gelled mass of hair, as he glances over the simple saddle shoes, red skinny jeans, and black v-neck that he had pulled on in haste after sleeping through his alarm.

"Blaine Anderson," Shelby said, voice dry, colored slightly by amusement, "Meet Santana Lopez, stylist and PR guru. Please do not take anything she says to heart. Tact is not listed on her resume."

He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, eyes darting between to two women (Santana is still muttering expletives in Spanish, forehead furrowed in a scowl).

"How about we start again, Blaine Anderson," She said, offering her hand to Blaine, gaze wondering over to Nick, "and friend. Welcome to the Major Rift family."

Nick grins dragging a fisted hand out of a front pocket waving awkwardly. "Nick Duval, best friend since forever."

"Nice to meet you Mr. Duval." She turns back to Blaine handing him the manila folder, "Here is your official copy of the contract that you and your father signed on Sunday." She paused as he tucks the papers into his beat up messenger bag before continuing. "Today we just want to informally welcome you and introduce you to the producer that will be working on your record so that you have a chance to become comfortable before recording. Any questions?"

Excitement dances across Blaine's face, eyes glowing bright with barely contained energy. "Is it Michael Stipe from REM?"

"Or A.C. Newman from the New Pornographers?" Nick added clutching at the back of Blaine's shirt.

Shelby traded a look with the now smirking Santana. "Actually we were thinking more along the lines of Kurt Hummel."

"Like clichéd boy bander from the early 2000s, member of the now infamous New Directions, Kurt Hummel?" Blaine asked, voice pitching higher in disbelief.

"He is so lame." Nick groaned a half step behind him.

"I know that he is still in and out of the tabloids," Shelby placated, "but he has really grown as an artist."

Blaine snorted. "Does he even play an instrument or is his repertoire limited to step-ball-change?"

"Actually," a clear, demanding voice called from the platform snapping their attention upwards where a man stood, arms akimbo, jaw clenching as he surveyed the room, "I am classically trained on piano and can hold my own on the guitar and bass, or so I have been told."

Long, lean legs clad in black skinny jeans carried the man with an impenetrable air of confidence over to their little conference circle. He stops, hands tucking into back pockets, and levels Blaine with a look of indifference. "If we are done slaughtering my perceived character, can we actually get some work done?"

The boys shift, chins dropping, as the question falls heavy around them.

Shelby sighed. "Blaine Anderson meet Kurt Hummel, your producer."

The silence settles self-consciously even as his gaze shifts over the lace-up Doc Martins, up the jeans, lingering on the waist coat and black satin skinny tie, smoothing over the white oxford rolled up to the elbows, before meeting burning blue eyes almost uncertainly.

"Who is the sidekick?" Kurt asked, a condescending eyebrow arching upwards, chin jutting towards Nick.

"Not a sidekick. I'm his people." Nick huffed as Santana snickered, amusement highlighting her face.

"Oh, of course," Kurt said slowly, extending the syllables as he redirected his gaze towards Blaine. "So are you going to continue standing their looking like I killed your puppy or are you actually going to show me why Shelby thinks that you are the best thing since sliced bread?"

"Alright boys," Shelby said clapping a hand down on Blaine's shoulder, "how about we finish this conversation in the studio."

* * *

><p>Playing to record is entirely different than performing, he soon realizes as he settles onto the round stool in the middle of the studio, headphones around his neck, microphone stationary in front of him. There is no energy to pull from, no audience, except for those staring at him expectantly through the thick glass partitioning the engineer room from the recording booth, to interact with. Even with the people staring, conversing amongst each other with unheard words, he feels utterly alone. Performing might have made him physically ill with nerves and fear but, this, sitting alone in the silence of the studio with his guitar and the oddly shaped pieces of equipment that he cannot even begin to name, makes him feel too awkward to play for the first time. He hates it.<p>

"You can start anytime, Blaine." Shelby called staticky through the headphones.

So he takes a deep breath, fingers brushing over the slow opening chords almost hesitantly. And then he sings:

"Every time I go, she dies.

Every time she comes, she cries.

I was her long, bright future

In the middle of a wrong, dark road.

I loved her but I wasn't too sure

If I could return the love she showed

When she said my love extends

Beyond the realm of being friends.

I kissed her head

And quietly I said,

It's not that you're not beautiful,

You're just not beautiful to me –"

Kurt's voice cuts harsh and unexpected through the headphones. "Stop, just stop. You sound like you are singing a funeral dirge."

Blaine freezes, fingers still pressed into the strings, hand raised in mid-strum, as Kurt stalks into the recording booth.

A frown etches severity into high cheekbones and strong jaw. "Give me the guitar."

Wordlessly, Blaine hands the guitar and hot pink pick, cheeks blushing hot.

"Sing," Kurt demanded foot coming to rest on the side bar of the stool, fingers strumming a passable approximation of the chords.

He shifts angling his body away from the man, arms crossing over his torso, and sings, voice catching soft with uncertainty.

Fingers continue pushing the tempo until the notes fall smoothly into a graceful sweep. "Faster, Blaine."

Gritting his teeth, Blaine follows the command until his words, his melody flows strong, secure in the body of the song.

Kurt continues to strum allowing the song to build and fall naturally before stopping. "Now that is something we can work with but those words need some work."

"I'm not changing the words." He insisted softly, eyes burning, hands clutching his guitar back to his chest.

His face softens as he studies the boy whose shoulders hunched over and gaze had fallen to the ground. "Look, Blaine that song was good enough for you to win but it isn't ready to be released.

"I can't," he swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

And he ran; weaving through the main room, feet loud on the tile of the lobby, not stopping until the LA heat hits him like a brick and he can breathe again.

* * *

><p>He doesn't go into the studio the next day and no one calls to berate him for the unexpected exit from the studio. The taxi ride back to Santa Monica was a quiet affair as was the rest of the day spent hiding in the quiet hostility of his room with the drapes drawn and no music to drown our his thoughts where he stays until the next morning. He was done even before he started and he knew it. It made him sick in the slam of his heart to the ground, can't breathe because it's not necessary anymore, kind of way. A thick, dense fog settles sticky in his mind, his tongue is cotton in his mouth, and skin stretches too tight across his bones. It's the morning after failure, after disappointment, and he knows how it echoes in the hollows of his bones. It is not his first time he feels this ache of resignation nor will it be the last time, he is certain, but he still does not know how to deal with it. So he folds in upon himself, arms circling his torso, knees rising to his chest, and hides beneath the roughly worn quilt that Nick's mom made for his sixth birthday. It is too hot with the summer heat pressing in hard and the stifling weight of the blanket but he accepts it, he drowns in it. It centers him. His phone vibrates, hop scotching across his nightstand with such intensity that he jumps, pushes his way out of the layers, and stares at it before turning over even as the phone continues to rattle, skip, and jump. It isn't until call number ten that he T-Rexes his arm out of the covers and grasps the offending piece of technology.<p>

"'lo," he groaned, voice thick and uncooperative.

"Get yourself uncacooned from your pod of shame and get yourself down to Peace." Charlie commanded loud and harsh through the ear piece.

He pulls the blanket back over his head. "Nice to hear from you too, Charlotte."

"Blaine Anderson," she escalated to yelling, "get your scrawny ass down here or I am going to leave my shift, probably get fired for leaving my shift, and drag you out of your damn room."

"Need to shower," he grunted.

"Half an hour or else I am coming to get you." She hangs up.

* * *

><p>Peace coffee shop is one of those trendy organic places located on 5th Street a couple of blocks away from the promenade. It may be trendy but it is ragged, worn out in a way that suggests life happened within the graying steps and peeling paint. It has heart and it is also bright purple with turquoise trim. Although those are not correlative elements, they go hand in hand because they work to cultivate stories under the pitched-roof – like the hand in heart mural tagged on the west side by an unknown street artist or the always changing black and white pictures that hangs slightly askew on the rust walls. Mrs. Rhodes, the proprietor, collects stories like some people collect scarves or other novelty items. She also lets Blaine play on Sunday afternoons when everything is slow and lazy. It becomes their sanctuary of sorts long before Charlie is employed and he is allowed to mindlessly strum in the corner. Charlie is humming a catchy little tune that scratches at the back of his head when he finally creeps to the front of the queue. She quirks an eyebrow, taps the chunky face of her wristwatch, hands him a medium drip with, what smells like, cinnamon sprinkled on top, and motions to a two person table tucked away in the far corner. He sighs as he darts through the solid press of the lunch rush and sits sipping his coffee amidst the crescendo of conversation that builds around him.<p>

"So," she started plopping down apron less across from him a mere twenty minutes later, "what the hell happened?"

He shrugged, eyes darting around the room searching for a painless exit. "Don't you have to work?"

She ignores him fingers clacking relentlessly on the table top. "Nick said you ran. You didn't even get through one song."

He finally looks at her, studies the forehead scrunched in confusion, the weariness that drips out of her eyes, the corners of her mouth stretching down into long lines of worry. "They want to change the song, change me. I couldn't breathe in that fucking recording booth, Charlie. I wasn't good enough and I didn't know what to do."

"So you left." She repeated.

"So I left." He said, eyes dropping down to watch his fingers circle the smooth rim of the dark blue mug.

"I am so going to need more coffee for this conversation." She muttered pushing away from the table and coming back a few minutes later with a steaming latte. "OK. You are going to listen to what I have to say without interrupting me." She paused long enough for a slow nod of consent. "Did you ever consider that they might actually improve the song? Believe me; I know how much that song means to you. I am connected to that song too, Blaine, and it makes me hurt every time I hear it. That will never change. But their job is music. They know how songs work and how to manipulate them so that they can get the most out of it. Yeah, maybe, they will change the structure, edit some words, play with the tempo, but they are not changing the heart of the song. You will never change from that song. It is you."

"I don't know how to be me." He said quietly, voice catching, shuddering.

"You will figure it out. You always do." She smiled reaching over to pry a hand from where it is fisted over his eyes. "So is Kurt Hummel really your producer?"

He rolls his eyes laughing weakly as he slouches back into his chair, "Unfortunately."

"God when Nick called and told me, 'Pick Up the Pieces,' automatically forced its way into my brain and has been set on repeat ever since." She grinned.

"That's what you where whistling when I first came in. I haven't heard that song in forever." His eyes light up in realization, humming the easy melody under his breath, before gesturing to the big round table by the door. "Since when has Peace become the lacrosse team hangout?"

"Don't remind me." She groaned falling backwards in her seat in exaggeration. "They are assholes and they don't tip."

Laughing, he submerges himself in the quietness that has just been restored to the little café (with the exception of the gaggle of wannabe frat boys). Its times like these, when the coffee shop rocks in a slow, loose rhythm, the low rumble of the grinder replaces the dull throb of too many conversations, and people are drowsy with contentment, which he likes best. The stress melts away in slow rivulets until it pools at his feet. Charlie's head ends up braces on a palm and his eyes fall half-mast.

"What are you going to do now?" She asked, free hand spinning her cup in lazy circles.

"Probably should go and beg for forgiveness." He said pressing his forehead to the dark, heavy wood of the table.

"Probably should," she agreed, straightening in her chair, eyes widening almost comically, "but I don't think that will be necessary."

"Huh?" He grunted, head never leaving the cool surface of the table.

Reaching over, she taps him on the back of the head with enough force to warrant a squawk of protest. "See for yourself."

He drags himself into an upright position, blinking as brightness invades his senses, and looks around slowly. There, standing by the door, is Kurt Hummel surveying the little shop with dripping disdain.

"What's he doing here?" He mumbled ducking low in his chair.

Her eyes map his progress to the counter. "Don't know but you should go find out."

Patting his cheek, she sends him a mocking half smile before disappearing behind the counter. Kurt turns slowly away from the counter, two cups and a pair of sunglasses balanced precariously in his hands, meets Blaine's reserved gaze, and gestures towards the door. He can feel the burn of people's stares when he slowly gathers his belongings, throwing the garbage away, and heads to the door where Kurt was waiting, hip cocked, and a look of haughty indifference painted over his face.

"Oh good, the fag is leaving," a voice shouted over the din of the café.

A smattering of laughter follows immediately. The words slam into the back of his head, reverberates, the force of which makes him stumble. It's hard to keep his shoulders from hunching forward, to keep his face from reacting, and his pace steady as he continues on his path hesitating at the door long enough to collect the offered coffee.

"Let's go Kurt," he muttered, eyes never leaving the freedom of the door.

* * *

><p>They don't talk when Kurt merges onto I-10 or when they exit onto the 405. It isn't until they were cruising at speed on the 101 towards Ventura that he lets his gaze wander over the sharp profile of the man weaving too fast through traffic.<p>

"Where are we going?" He asked after they pass out of LA proper.

"Somewhere you can't runaway." He said, half smiling, while fidgeting with the satellite radio until piano heave blues falls seamlessly from the speakers.

Blaine twists in his seat until he is facing the man driving. "Are you planning on killing me or something?"

"Well, that definitely was an option but, ultimately, I decided that it wasn't a viable solution." He said casually, eyes never leaving the road. "Besides, you own me a song."

"Is that right?" Blaine snorted.

"Yup." Kurt said hesitating long enough to shift gears as the car accelerates along the flat stretch of highway before redirecting his attention back towards Blaine. "So how long ago did you come out?"

The off-handedness of the question is shocking and it makes his mind swim with the hum of the tires.

He tenses, shoulders falling forward, arms encircling his waist. "Who said that I am gay?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed," Kurt smoothes a hand down his face, a frown echoing in his voice.

Blaine stares at the summer burned scenery that flashes past his window and shrugs. "It wouldn't be the first time someone was called gay for being different."

Kurt remains quiet, thumbs tapping time on the steering wheel, for the rest of the drive. They exit the highway somewhere near Oxnard and weave their way through back roads littered with little ranch style homes that actually have acreage before pulling into a barren, dirt parking lot.

* * *

><p>"Well are you coming?" Kurt asked slipping out of the low slung Audi, cup in one hand, and Blaine's guitar in the other. "Will you grab the blanket behind the passenger seat? We've got a little bit of a walk."<p>

With a sureness born of many visits, Kurt finds the narrow path that snakes away from the parking lot, meandering through sand dunes decorated with clumps of yellowing prairie grass, before opening up to a small, pebbled cove scattered throughout with misplaced boulders.

He pauses besides Kurt losing himself in the metronomic crash and recession of the waves. "It's beautiful."

Kurt turns, facing him fully, smile pressing insistently across his face, happiness radiating loose and comfortable. "When I first moved out here, I didn't have anywhere to go where I could be by myself so one day I got in my car and found myself here. Not many people come here because the beach isn't sand but I like it."

They step carefully across the rocks, slippery with seaweed left from high tide and the film of the ocean, round a slight bend to a flat, table rock a few feet from the ocean. It's a scramble to get to the top but they eventually settle themselves cross-legged on the plaid blanket that spreads the width of the rock.

"What now?" Blaine asked setting the guitar case at that top of the rock and carefully pulling the instrument out.

"You play." Kurt nodded at the guitar before stretching out on the rock, face tipping towards the sun.

So he plays the song they way he wrote it full of long wavering chords that drift without direction and his words echoing the melancholic mood.

Kurt hums when the last slow phrase comes to an end. "Again, please."

And he plays. Chords grow thicker, louder, grinding against the roar of the ocean, voice vibrating through the rock and in his ears. It is not still nor is it quiet when he finishes but he is.

"Why do you sing like you are apologizing for something?" Kurt asked shifting until he is sitting upright.

Fingers continue to pick out silent, wisps of notes attention focused solely on the horizon. "I wasn't raised on spoonfuls of acceptance, Kurt."

It's an explanation of sorts and Kurt takes it, absorbs it, and paints it into the rock without pretense. "You should never have to apologize for being yourself, Blaine."

"I wrote it after I came out to Charlie. She told me that she loved me and I told her that I was gay. It is an apology. I don't know how to sing it any other way." Blaine said setting the guitar back into the safe confines of the case before drawing his knees to his chest.

It is easy to lose yourself within a song, Kurt knows this, has experienced the overwhelming feeling of submerging yourself completely in an inconsequential three minute segment, but Blaine is just figuring it out.

"Writing a song is a lot like life. It's hard and painful and sometimes you have to take yourself out of the equation, even just temporarily, so that it doesn't feel so daunting." Kurt said softly, body mirroring the younger boy's. "And sometimes you have to walk away but there are instances when you work hard revising, editing, and rewriting for what seems like an infinite number of variations but, when it is finally finished, you are left with something beautiful." He paused, thin cotton shirt stinging with the relentless heat of the day, white crests of the waves glaringly bright even through the tinted lenses of Kurt's sunglasses. "Your song, Blaine, is rough. I mean, really rough, but it has the chance of being truly beautiful. You have to stop apologizing and look at it from a different perspective."

It is a slow reaction, the unfolding of the body until joints can move again, hands grabbing for the guitar, fingers picking out the same notes again and again until he stops thinking. Then the words come, different, altering the song except not really. Kurt sits silently, sometimes commenting, offering suggestions when necessary, gaze alternating between the ocean and the dark haired boy trying to figure out how to accept himself. When they finish, Blaine is slightly sunburned, but happy. Kurt offers his hand, warm and firm, and pulls him onto legs that are numb with sleep. The sun is a faint afterthought in the horizon and shadows have grown long bruising the ground with the promise of night.

Kurt regards him with a soft smile as they pick their way back through the rocks. "You feel up to some dinner?"

Blaine pauses, head tipping in contemplation of the man whose hand is still clutched in his. "I know a great Tai place."

"Lead the way, bright eyes." Kurt laughed dropping his hand in order to sweep forward in some hyperbolic version of a grand gesture.

And they went vibrating in the afterglow of something beautiful.


	3. Who's Been Loving You

**A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to get out but I have been stuck in a mind frame of hating everything I write which made me not want to write. Hopefully, the next part will be up in a more timely fashion but life has ben kicking me in the stomach lately so I am not going to promise anything. The restaurants named in this part do exist but the penthouse in the Silver Lake district does not, to my knowledge, does not. Song used in this section, "Who's Been Loving You," is by the amazing hip-hop artist / spoken word artist George Watsky and we are going to pretend that the part in the story (first lines of third stanza) is a rock song not rap. Coincidentally, Mr. Watsky went to high school with the Criss brothers and he is one of my absolute favorite up-and-coming poets. Check out is stuff. All of the people who have read and commented on this silly little thing are truly wonderful and amazing. If it weren't for everyone supporting me, this story probably would have died after the first part. As always, thank you for reading.**

* * *

><p>"<em>Make It or Break It," Star Hot for Teacher? <em>

_ Blaine Anderson, 16, whose single "Beautifully," was released three weeks ago with predominantly positive reviews, was seen exiting Poom's Tai Cuisine with Kurt Hummel, 24. A witness said that the pair seemed "close [and] talked intimately," throughout dinner. Rumors have been swirling about the new recording artist's sexual preference since his win on the hit summer talent competition. When asked about his romantic interests, Anderson has remained elusive stating that he is merely a "goofy looking sixteen-year-old who wants to play music," and the PR department at Major Rift Records has yet to issue a statement regarding his orientation. Hummel – a member of the now defunct, New Directions – came out to the media a month after the abrupt breakup of the popular singing group four years ago. Since his very public, and some say drunk, break up with up and coming indie actor Benjamin Gray, 23, six months ago, Hummel has been keeping a low profile. He is slotted as producer for Anderson's full length studio album due out early next year._

_-In Touch Magazine_

_August, 2011_

* * *

><p>It takes a week to finish and record the song with full instrumentals. During that week, the studio transforms from a place of isolation to a place where music becomes an organic being constantly shifting, changing in an infinite conglomeration of lofty ideals and practical applications. It is not an instantaneous change brought on by one afternoon spent reworking his song with a man who understands shifts in details and the power of song. No, it's a slow turning sensation as fingers find the necessary notes, hears the recording playing back in a clear representation, and watches the lines of music change shape as a bass line is intertwined and a simple percussive beat is layered on top. Finally he sings the lyrics that are new, a little foreign slipping off his tongue, but still tells a story of two friends entwined together within two different definitions of love. It's the process he likes best, he decides, after he is handed the final mix. He stares at the neat, blocky handwriting inscribing his name and song across the shiny surface of the CD before sinking into Kurt's arms in disbelief. And then the reviews come in. It takes less than a second for his heart to crash onto the tile in a mess of blood and despair when he reads Alex Ross' review, posted on the , which informs the readers that Blaine Anderson does not possess enough jangly familiarity to assert any kind of influence on the mainstream charts nor does he have enough musical depth or substance to gain recognition in the indie community. Another reviewer insists that he is just the flavor of the week that will not last past the next teenage sensation. There are more good reviews than bad but positivity does not pierce and stick between the ribs the way that negativity does.<p>

"Everybody gets bad reviews," Kurt insisted pulling the bulky headphones down around his neck and pushing away from the control panel as the band in the recording booth resets for another take. "Accept the criticism and move on. You can't please everyone, Blaine."

So he tries to remind himself that Alex Ross' opinion does not matter because his song is getting played consistently on the radio and has hit a plateau at the number seven spot onto Itunes top ten songs list. Seven is a good number, a number that he cannot quite comprehend, and he is ecstatic. But Nick has been awfully quiet since he handed him a copy of the final mix. Blaine shrugs it off and chalks it up to the looming gloom that comes with the imminent school year and hefty weight of ignored summer reading for their AP English Literature class. So he basks in Charlie's praise and lets the conversation melt into Nick's sly topic transitions. Nick has always had the talent of herding conversation in the direction he wants it to go. Eventually, he accepts that he may not have the smooth likeability of Bruno Mars (_Grenade_ contains one of the worst metaphors, anyways) to conform to popular music standards nor does he do enough drugs to be the next Connor Oberst (Rolling Stones' proclaimed boy genius of indie music), apparently.

* * *

><p>It takes a lecture on image and reputation (one that mirrors his father's lecture but he does not allow himself to pull parallels), a handful of meetings, and much longer than a week to figure out how to deal with the press. The picture was innocuous, really. A simple, gritty image of them leaving the restaurant, Kurt's hand placed firmly in the middle of Blaine's back as he ushers him through the door. He didn't even see the cameraman that shot the photo from around the corner.<p>

"My parents don't even know," he whispered when Shelby calls him into her office the afternoon after the tabloid drops. "I didn't think . . . it was just dinner."

Shelby slides onto the corner of her desk folding her hands in her lap. "Look, Blaine, we don't care whether you are gay, bi, straight, purple, whatever but you have to be comfortable with what you show the public. People are going to judge and maybe even hate you for what you chose to broadcast outside these walls; more so now because you are getting played on the radio and people are starting to recognize you."

He sits on his hands to stop fidgeting eyes casting down to the floor. "Are you suggesting that I censor who I am?"

"No," she said decisively. "I want you to be whoever you want to be but everything gets twisted, distorted out there. People find hate so much easier than love, than acceptance, and it is so easy to lose yourself in the whirlwind of outside perspectives. Be yourself, Blaine. Love yourself but protect yourself now while you can."

He lets his fingers brush Kurt's bicep when they pass on the stairs.

"Not now, Blaine," he muttered freezing but not turning to face him, "we will talk tomorrow, ok?"

Kurt is moving again before he can respond taking the steps two at a time disappearing into Shelby's office without another glance. Charlie is waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, book clutched securely to her chest. She doesn't say anything easily falling into step with him in silent support – something she has always supplied without pretence.

* * *

><p>The beach is alive with a certain energy that comes with the last week of summer vacation. Kids dart the length of the pier, parents playing caboose as they bounce from one sight to the next. The older kids lean against railings staring in cool detachment, beanies pulled low over heads despite the lingering heat, skateboards propped by their sides, cheeks blushing with sun and excitement. They wade through the hordes of people, order greasy, over priced burgers from the Carousel Café, and wonder down the length of the beach to an empty life guard stand stationed between the pier and Venice Beach. The smog is thick mixing with the hazy heaviness of the latest heat wave making everything slow and blurry. Surfers bob beyond the break line patiently waiting for the perfect set of waves to take them home. Mirages of half finished sand castles stand desolate, lonely just out of reach from the crush of the waves. They laugh in the face of destruction in the way that Blaine never will be able to.<p>

"He is twenty-four," she started breaking the silence with the crinkling of paper being compressed into a ball. "What are you doing, Blaine?"

He trains his gaze on the ruins of the pretend empires and nods, "I know."

Launching himself off of the observation deck, he stumbles, momentum pulling him down and forward in an uncoordinated mess of flailing arms and tangling legs. It takes a few steps to regain balance and redirect his body into a forward state of movement and then he is at the waterline, toes digging into the sludge as the cool fingers of the waves wrap languidly around his ankles before retracting. He pulls himself away from the drag of water and circles the crumbling towers of forgotten sandcastles. Without hesitation, he topples them with a firm press of his barefoot. He sinks down, sand contouring to the negative spaces of his body, feet stretching towards the water, head tipping upwards towards the dull sky.

"He understands what it is like." He whispered when Charlie finally sprawls out next to him in the burning sand.

"It doesn't hurt that he is absolutely gorgeous, I would imagine." She laughed kicking sand over his lower legs.

He blushes almost instantaneously, "yeah there is that."

"Ah, Blainey has a crush," She sing-songed wiggling a finger into his side. "He is so smitten. He wants to wear Kurt like a mitten."

He rolls over in an attempt to stop the assault on his side burying his face in his forearms. "Why am I friends with you?

"Well," she said tapping a finger to her chin in contemplation, "your face has been plastered across the front page of a tabloid which means that you have reached super stardom, of course. So you have to keep me around to make sure your head doesn't inflate with the growing size of your ego. I am incredibly adept at bursting bubbles, if you must know."

"That makes so much sense," he nodded mouth twisting up into a grin. "However, I think it simply means that we finally found a use for you."

Their laughter fades in waves and sore abdomens. He rolls back over, sand hour glassing through his fingers, and watches a family creep past in a quest for sea glass.

"So," she said, her gaze following the gleefully disjointed movement of the kids bouncing off of each other and into the surf while their parents stroll, arms wrapping around waists comfortably, securely, slowly behind them radiating contentment. "What now?"

He hums to himself, absentmindedly shifting the sand beneath his fingers in swirling abstractivity, "anything. Everything and nothing."

She shifts pulling herself until her legs are crossed and her shadow splashes long, dark over his upper body. Late afternoon light filters golden hued and lovely across skin burned dark by the sun pooling shadows under high cheekbones. His eyes are closed, lashes fanning thick against flushed skin, a gentle smile pulling at the corner of his lips. It's funny, she thinks as she listens to the wispy strands of an unknown song spill unconsciously from the boy in front of her, that he is, despite life speeding in different directions all at once, the stillest she has ever seen.

"So serious," he mumbled, eyes slitting open, glimmering in the warm light.

She shrugs, smiling slightly, fingers burrowing through the sand. "You look happy."

"I think I am in a state of denial, maybe ignorance." He smiled stretching long before pillowing his hands under his hand. "I am happy, thought, despite everything. Plus I am out at the beach on an incredibly beautiful day with one of my best friends pretending to be a regular, average person. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

"Hmm," she hummed settling back into the sand, shoulders brushing, "and what about your summer reading, Mr. Average Joe?"

"We are so not talking about that." He said waving a hand dismissively. "What we need to talk about is wardrobe choices for the house party that Jeff is playing at and Nick says that we absolutely need to show up to."

* * *

><p>There is fuzziness in the late night atmosphere that suspends everything in a hazy looseness which dulls the senses and let's time flow liquid. The party, held in a large pent house in the Silver Lake district, is in a state of stasis when they walk in late enough for everyone to be in a happy state of bleariness where laughter slurs into philosophical discussion about nothing. People are swaying bending their bodies to the slew of notes being spewed around the room offering mangled words of worship whenever the lyrics resemble something they understand. A red cup that smells like skittles but burns when swallowed is thrust into his hands contents rocking in a dangerous parabola with the force of the hand off. He loses Charlie in the press of bodies as he navigates through the never ending chorus of hellos. The drink is gone by the time he reaches the kitchen and he can feel it sliding hot down his esophagus warming his body in an electric tingle. An intense game of King's Cup has gathered a crowd around the oak table and he takes a long pull of his refilled drink watching the wavering hand of a girl he didn't know place a card onto the teetering stack mushrooming on top of an overturned cup. A cheer erupts and play continues. Blaine props himself against the door frame out of the way of flying limbs and watches the party shift, contort around him blending into the soundtrack of the night. A blonde boy, all flailing arms and uncontained energy, shimmies his way over stopping close enough that he can tuck his head onto the shelf of Blaine's shoulder.<p>

"Oh, hello, friend," the boy sighed readjusting the lopsided bright red beanie body still swaying to the pulse of the room. Blaine stares down at the boy who is attached to his side raising an eyebrow as the boy blinks heavily, pupils blown wide with intoxication, and giggles. "Blaine Anderson, I have seemed to have lost my shoes."

Blaine laughs at the bare toes wiggling against the hard wood floor and slings an arm around his shoulder. "I see that Jeff Harrison."

"But don't worry, kind sir," Jeff said, arm shooting out in an all encompassing gesture amber liquid sloshing onto the floor, "they shall return when the time is right."

"You have magical shoes," he agreed, clinking their cups together.

"You know what's magical?" Jeff asked closing one eye in order to focus, "your song, dude. It's fucking haunting and shit. So not gimmicky corporate crap no matter what people are saying."

"Thanks, Jeff," He murmured.

"Anytime, man, anytime," he said downing the rest of his drink before disentangling from Blaine, "except for right now because I have to go play my magnum opus on the topic of love. I love tonight, tomorrow too, and, possibly, Wednesday but that hasn't been decided yet."

Blaine laughs, head colliding with the wall behind him. "That sounds like a very necessary action, my friend."

"Huzzah!" Jeff shouted zigzagging his way through the cluster of people cup held aloft in salute.

Blaine slips back into the kitchen just as the first twangy guitar chords bounce off the walls. A couple of measures later, a swinging bass line weaves its way into the melody and the drums join on a down beat. Bodies collide with his as he pushes back into the main room clutching a shot of tequila in one hand and a full cup of the skittle infused vodka punch in the other. People are gathering around the designated stage dancing to the infectious rhythm jostling together as the music flows up through the soles of their feet, consuming them. He raises the shot glass in silent appreciation before throwing it back and chasing it with the punch.

Jeff quirks an eyebrow, meeting Blaine's gaze, "Even though I owe them money / I think it's pretty likely / That my whole family loves me. / My lovers tend to like me. / My teachers love to hate me. / The haters love to fuck with me / The fickle love me lately."

He joins the crowd shoving forward into any space available before leaping onto an open spot on the couch and losing himself to the music.

* * *

><p>Time is no longer functioning in linear measurements by the time the song dies into the crackling white noise of cheap sound equipment. There is a moment when everything is too loud, clanking words clashing with out of sync conversations slurring loud without the dampening effects of solid noise. He hears only snippets at first – meaningless words floating out of order over the crush of bodies still swaying to the silenced music. There is a rhythm to their conversation, a give and take, which pulls him in even as he remains balanced precariously, arms windmilling, on the edge of the couch. The person who adds his name to the jumble of words (sell out, over produced, no musical integrity) is familiar in the scruffy, bandana wrapped around his head, wholly music festival (Live Oak 2001) t-shirt under a blue plaid shirt paired with tattered converse, kind of way. It takes awhile for his brain to play connect the dots aligning, rearranging the words that he can grasp around his name so that they make some sort of sense but they don't settle long enough for him to decipher. The band (Agent 3-6 or so Jeff announces) rolls in with throbbing bass lines and a crunchy lead guitar. Jeff wails a song that may contain Harry Potter references but he doesn't pay attention focusing on the group of guys trying to yell their conversation to a close. He doesn't hear anything more. The couch is moving when he attempts to step down on shaky, uncoordinated legs. He pitches forward shoulders colliding with the couch before he finds himself staring up at the ceiling swirling with black dotes and blurry edges. A hand reaches down clasping with his own and pulls him to his feet. It takes a moment to steady himself, to regain his bearings, eyes darting around the moving mass of bodies. That same hand which pulled him from beneath the feet of the oblivious people is pressing firmly, too hot in between his shoulder blades.<p>

"You ok?" The bandana wearing boy called, free hand cupping around his mouth in an attempt to direct the sound.

"Yeah, fine, thanks," he yelled back side stepping away from the hand.

The boy shrugs, arms crossing over his chest, mouth curving into a smirking half smile as he turns back towards the band, head bobbing with the beat.

A full red cup is pressed into his hands in passing with a shouted, "you look like you need this," and a slap on his back as he works his way out of the room. It's too hot despite the cool air blowing fast out of the air vents along the walls. His heart is shoving against his ribs in a dub step rhythm and eyes slide off his back leaving shivering goosebumps in their wake. It's quieter in the kitchen but the too bright lights sting his eyes and lashes against the throbbing pressure in his temples. A thick, sweet cloud of smoke hangs heavy over the balcony when Blaine slips out of the sliding glass door in search of cool quietness. The fake stucco of the Spanish styled building is gritty and rough as he slides down the wall shirt rucking up his back in the process. The friction grounds him against the spinning vortex that he had been sucked into.

"You ok, Anderson?" A slow, clumsy voice asked from somewhere on his right.

"'M fine," he said inhaling deeply through his nose waiting for his chest cavity to burn before releasing the spent air. He cracks his eyes open when he feels the ground calm beneath him finding Nick's heavy lidded stare.

"Good, that's good," Nick said handing the half finished joint to the girl slumping next to him.

"Hey," the girl said after taking a long drag, smoke curling out of her nose and mouth, "you are the guy that won that singing thing over the summer."

"Yeah," he nodded.

She grins and scrapes her hair away from her face. "That's cool man."

He shrugs fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

"Dude," Nick started again, voice thick, syllables spilling loose and incomplete from his mouth, "you should know that it isn't your fault that your single is crap. It can't be helped when you have an ex-boybander who's trying to make you into the next Justin Bieber."

"You know what, Nick," Blaine spat ignoring the murmured reactions of the others caught somewhere between uncomfortable and curious, "fuck you."

Nick is laughing, shoulders shaking, eyes flashing bright. "I would say yes please but last I heard you were fucking Hummel."

"Not cool dude," a gravelly voice muttered somewhere to the left of Blaine.

Maybe Nick's comment is supposed to be a joke, a low blow meant to elicit a reaction and strip away equilibrium. Maybe it was because of the weed makes Nick lose all social filters but reasons and intent does not matter in the quiet of the night with the slow thrum of the base rattling through the wall while everyone freezes and stares at the boys reeling in revelations. Blaine is the first to blink breaking their silent game of calculations rubbing a hand down the length of his face and shifting to feet made unsteady by the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

"Got to hell, Duval," he said before turning his back to the group and stepping back into the house where people are still smiling lost in the flux of time.

* * *

><p>He is still drunk. He feels it in the heaviness of his limbs as they pull him away from the humid, choking cramp of the apartment and the way his fingers fumble uncoordinated against the sleek touch screen of his phone. It is not the first time he has been drunk. No, that landmark event happened over the previous summer when the wine coolers tasted pink and laughter bubbled up unrestrained from nowhere and without reason. Tonight, though, walking alone down a swimming sidewalk, he wants to cry and punch something hard enough to hurt (he swings a boneless fist at a tree, misses, and falls). The voice that answers his call, once he figures out how his phone works again, croaks a muffled hello after three shrill rings. There is a hitch, a small moment of hesitation, between the rough greeting and when he starts talking, babbling, words disjointed sliding together as he stumbles into tangents that never hook back into the main conversation because sentences are started but never finished and he doesn't know what he is say or what he wants to say. All he can do is talk and tell street names and ask for a ride.<p>

"I will be right there, Blaine. Don't go anywhere," he said in a sigh.

"Ok." Blaine said, half sobbing, pressing back into the tree that he had yet to escape from underneath.

He pulls his knees to his chest, eyes closed against the florescent glare of the streetlamp, and tries to find the breath that is playing hide and seek in his chest until the heavy slap of feet hitting pavement echoes in the air and cool fingers brush against his cheek.

"Open your eyes, Blaine." A too far away voice called breaking through the fogginess of his mind. "I need you to open your eyes for me."

Being cognizant, operating on a command, is exhausting but he complies slitting his eyes open wide enough to focus on the man kneeling in front of him. "You came."

"You called." Kurt shrugged dropping his hands to rub the length of his bicep. "Can you move or do you need to sit for a little longer?"

"I am sorry, Kurt." He said clambering to his feet stumbling back into the tree before leaning heavily into Kurt's side, "So sorry."

A strong arm snakes around his waist steadying, comforting. "Let's just get you to the car."

* * *

><p>Kurt doesn't ask questions, doesn't lecture, and does not say a single word during the drive back to Santa Monica. Fingers clutch tight around the steering wheel and there is a visible weariness etching lines across his forehead and around his mouth. Blaine watches him in the neon glow of the dashboard lights searching for the words that could explain what happened, what went wrong. He wants to ask how he can keep himself from toppling when his world is tilting and swaying against gravitation pull. He wants to say that he doesn't know how to be the person his friends want him to be and the person Major Rift wants him to be and the person he wants to be all at the same time. It is like he is fracturing into a million fragments even when everyone is telling him to be himself but within parameters. Don't sell out. Don't forget who you are. Censor what the public sees. Protect yourself but still remain approachable. But they are pulling to a stop along the curb next to his house and Kurt is killing the engine with a decisive click of automatic locks. The house is dark, quiet. His parents are out of town, again.<p>

"Everything that is happening to you right now is scary as hell, I know," Kurt said twisting in his seat to face the younger boy, "but don't let yourself spin out of control. It is so easy to do and so hard to stop."

"I don't . . . I am trying to figure everything out." He said with a shuttering intake of air.

Kurt stares at him, temple resting against the top of the leather seat, and softly asked. "What makes you the happiest out of everything in your life, Blaine?"

Blaine draws is bottom lip into his mouth rolling the question around in his head until it becomes clear. "Music, always music."

"Then you should play and sing," Kurt smiled, eyes squinting, "but not for Nick, the reviewers, or that pretentious hipster standing next to you at some house party critiquing things he probably does not understand. Play because it makes you happy and nothing else."

"Is that why you sang?" He asked meeting the soft gaze of the man sitting beside him.

Kurt shakes his head and runs a finger tip around the circumference of the steering wheel. "No. I sang to escape."

Blaine studies the shadows the bruise across his face, the lamp light haloing above his head, and, without thinking, he is leaning across the center console, right hand finding support on the jean clad thigh, left hand brushing the hollow under the cheekbone, lips pressing firm and urgent to the other man's. Kurt still, inhales sharply, and shoves Blaine away.


	4. Try

**A/N: I am so sorry that this update took me so long. Life knocked me unconscious and then beat the crap out of me. Hopefully, I have things under control. The photographer, Chris Owyoung, is a real photographer for the New York Times that I have relocated to LA simply because I love his work and wanted him in the story. One Louder Photography is his actual studio and samples of his work is online (search one louder photos). The lyrics "let it out and let it in," tattooed on Kurt's arm is from the song "Hey Jude," by The Beatles and is, in fact, the tattoo that I have. Both The Troubadour and the cafe with the octopus mural are in existence; however, the cafe is not located in California. I transported it from my hometown because it serves awesome vegan food and makes me happy. The band Slightly Toasted is a figment of my imagination and is the combination of several of my favorite bands. If you want the links to the photographs referenced, PM me and I will send them to you. The songs featured in this installment are, in order of appearance, "Powerlines," by The Western States Motel and, "Try," by The John Mayer Trio. I changed the pronouns in "Try," so it would fit the story better. Also, I stole some of John Mayer's mannerisms because I love the style in which he performs especially when playing his blues influenced pieces (I don't care much for his more pop driven songs) with the trio. Finally, we are going to pretend that a 16-year-old Blaine Anderson can play the guitar like John Mayer (one of Rolling Stones top guitarists of this generation). This, once again is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. As always, thank you for reading. Your reviews make me want to continue.**

**PS~ if you made it through this ridiculously long authors not, I am incredibly impressed and you deserve cookies. Seriously. **

* * *

><strong><strong>

Remembering comes in stages, in waves of misaligned soundtracks and pictures that flicker black before returning distorted but intact. There is a moment, though, before the night replays in reverse when the disorientation of waking up somewhere he doesn't remember going out weighs the pricking of pain receptors slamming into his skill and the dry burn of his eyes reacting to the white washing glare of the late morning sunlight. His stomach heaves and he remembers throwing up in the potted plant by his front door. He remembers the soft, firm pressure of warm skin under his lips and the way his back thudded against the passenger door with the quiet of misplaced revelations swirling around him.

"God, Blaine, you are only sixteen," Kurt had said in the form of an apology sighed in regret.

There is a moment when that scene replays and gets set on repeat and he thinks he is going to be sick again but his mind moves on to the loud, topsy-turvy confusion of the party. He does dash not that much later, feet catching, tangling, his bedroom tilting and shifting beneath him, when he remembers the cold calculation in Nick's stare as he spits venom in the form of words. He stops revisiting past mistakes when the metallic taste of illness clouds his mind and clutches his body tight. The roaring noise dulls to a ring as he presses his forehead against the cool ceramic of the toilet basin and his knees ache with the imprinting of the diamond tile pattern. He finds peace kneeling before the hands of regret and sorrow. A metronomic beep is the first tangible evidence of today that can achieve some sort of reaction. Blaine stands with the splash of the flushing toilet legs wobbling and shivering with the effort of moving forward (and, most likely, low blood sugar but he likes the symbolism of the former reason) away from the remnants of last night. He will shower later when his knees are no longer attempting to buckle and his stomach no longer feels like it is trying valiantly to jump through his throat. The bed welcomes a fetal position and he lets his miserable body sink into the cradling comfort. A hand reaches upwards and out searching for the phone bleeping and shuttering the heartbeats of the room that tie him to now. His fingers ghost over fluttering paper, instead, and he pulls it down to eyelevel focusing on the words swimming before his eyes,

_Blaine,_

_Drink both bottles of water and take four Ibuprophan – it will help. We need to talk._

_- Kurt _

Blaine sighs, eyes closing against the wincing light, and lets the paper, a scrap ripped from somewhere with uncaring, jagged edges and enough blank space for the conciseness of the words, glide to the floor to be interpreted later. He slips through the folds of consciousness throbbing head consuming the persistence of the chirping phone. He will uncover the twenty-five texts and ten phone calls when the sun has firmly placed itself in its afternoon setting and the sharpness of everything has dulled to a comprehendible level.

* * *

><p>"And the prodigal son has returned," Santana yawned when he finally walks into the kinetic energy of the recording studio. "You look like you were hit by a mack truck on the 10, Frodo."<p>

"Something like that," he muttered sweeping his gaze past the immovable force of Santana to the now familiar landscape and organic shift of the main room. "Have you seen Kurt?"

"Studio 4 with an artist," she said dismissively, "however, you and I have a scheduling date. Comprende?"

A slim hand clenches tight around his bicep and tugs him forward to a table tucked away from traffic in a relatively quiet corner.

A thick, paper clipped mass of paper laden with fine print, dates, and expectations whacks down in front of him. "For the next week this is your bible. Read it, memorize it, incorporate it into your daily prayers, and you should be fine."

It is easy enough to tune her out as she shuffles her copy of the packet and starts with the first sub-category. He knows it is important to pay attention, he really does, but his mind is still clouded and pulsing out of sync so he melts into the chair, head propped on an open palm, while her voice rolls over and through him without comprehension. He focuses a slow, lazy gaze over her shoulder and hums an affirmative to a posed question that may have been rhetorical. He stretches, bones cracking, lengthening, and sees Kurt shadowed in the tinted glass of studio four, bottom lip drawn into his mouth in concentration, as he bends over the control panel tweaking knobs and adjusting levels. A soft grey, newsboy cap is pulled low over his forehead but it does nothing to hide the half-smile threatening to overtake his face or the way he throws his head back and laughs, full bodied and long, at whatever Finn, the sound engineer, had said. Kurt is a study of lean lines and sweeping motions and Blaine wants to learn how long, nimble fingers extrapolate details in order to meld them into the bigger picture or how the length of his spine bends into a question mark of everyday suppleness and grace. He wants to touch and learn and create with the man whom hides behind an air of pretention and acidic wit. He sighs, long and without any effort to hide the sense of longing that infiltrated the common act, before allowing his attention to shift back to the woman frowning at him.

She cracks an eyebrow and levels him with a condescending glare, "is your bowtie so tight that it is hindering the oxygen saturation to your brain which, in turn, makes it impossible for you to pay attention, Anderson?"

"No, I just – I can't stop thinking about this song that Kurt and I have been working on." He stuttered shifting under her scrutiny.

"Uh-huh," she said rolling her eyes, "go talk to the princess so that maybe we can get some work done?"

He watches her gather her things and rise from the table, "sorry, Santana."

"Stop with the 'gee shucks,' routine, already. It doesn't work on me and makes you sound like a pathetic pushover." She snapped pivoting on her heel and strutting away to the rhythmic clack of stilettos hitting the ground.

He doesn't have a reason not to go sneaking into studio four as the band trickles out heading towards the hospitality area. But he remains at the table, slumped in upon himself, thinking about the conversation that needs to be held.

* * *

><p>He feels depleted, drained of what little energy he had conjured with four cups of coffee, by the time he slowly rises from the table and finds himself hesitating outside the control room. Kurt is still in there, alone now, head lulling against the back if the rolling chair, eye lashes fanning thick against the infrastructure of high cheekbones, over sized headphones curling around the back of his neck, thumb sweeping over the swirling black ink of a tattoo printed into the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. <em>Let it out and let it in <em>are the words that Blaine has only seen in snatches etched dark and seemingly out of place in parallel lines heavy with the sanctity of an idolized song and a hidden meaning that Blaine has yet to learn. He knocks softly hesitant to disturb the unguarded man before him.

Kurt stirs, blinks slow and hard, straightening his spine in one long stretch, "Blaine."

"Hi," he murmured stepping just inside the door and into the stillness of the little room. Kurt studies him, eyes squinting over his features in an unnervingly slow sweep. "I am so sorry, Kurt."

"You look like hell," he said, hands clasping together in his lap.

Blaine shuffles forward slightly, smiling weakly. "So I have been told."

Kurt hums a low, noncommittal sound, corners of his mouth curling down as his hands break apart to rub at the raised skin of his tattoo again.

"What does your tattoo mean?" He blurted partly because of the silence and partly due to curiosity.

His frown deepens, hands stilling, disengaging, before coming to rest flat against the length of his thighs. "I wanted to inform you that, after we complete this most recent track, I am resigning as your producer. Shelby has already been informed and Finn is slotted to fill the producer position for your CD."

Something clutches, an invisible hand or steel band, around his chest cavity compressing choking air out of his lungs in a hissing stream. His stomach heaves. The hot burn of stomach acid scorches a trail up his esophagus and he gags.

"No, don't leave . . . " he trailed off stumbling backwards until his back hits the sharp edge of the doorframe and he sags against it in an effort to remain balanced. "I don't think I can do this without you."

"I'm freelance, Blaine, and I cannot afford to remain solely connected to Major Rift." Kurt said steadily fixing him with a gaze that he cannot read. "I am done here."

It is hard to look at him now that Kurt has retreated to rigid lines of forced posture, jaw clenching, eyes dulling to a listless blue, but he does. He stares until Kurt starts to fidget readjusting the silver summer scarf wrapped delicately around his neck, heel jostling sporadically against the ground. His façade is slipping snatches of uncensored emotions flash through the thick veneer of his practiced mask. Maybe, Blaine cannot convince him to stay but, at least, Kurt's decision is not as black and white as it appears.

"I am very sorry that I have become a burden, Kurt. I will see you tomorrow to finish the song." He said without breaking eye contact before turning and exiting into the pleasant loudness of the main room.

It isn't until he reaches the base of the stairway that he releases a shuddering breath, pauses, right foot resting on the bottom step, and waits until his body stops shaking before proceeding to Santana's office for more verbal abuse. He cannot wait. There are four unexpected, slightly familiar people lounging in the office when he slowly enters.

"I see that your lady chat with the ice queen didn't go well." She remarked dryly. "Sit down and pretend to listen to me, Anderson." Blaine nodded taking a chair by her desk that was vacated by a lanky red head. "First of all, these sickening sweet faces that you see before you are the members of Slightly Toasted whom you will be opening for on Saturday at the Troubadour. The Ginger is Liam McMahon, the guitarist, the dark haired one that looks like he is about to cry is Ezra Parish, the bassist, the dorky one with the glasses that should be banned in every country is Jamie Quincy, the drummer, and the girl with the unfortunate haircut is Ingrid Andrews, the keyboard player. You can create a mutual admiration society once I am finished and I cannot see any displays of sickening cuteness. Secondly, you have rehearsals with the studio band Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings. Thirdly, a photo shoot with Chris Owyoung for the cover of G-Major magazine is scheduled for Friday morning." Santana pauses arranging the various piles of papers and folders on her desk before pinning him to the seat with a penetrating glare. "Now that we have finished the cliff notes version of what I started telling you earlier, I do not want to see your face again until you can recite the packet of information that I gave you verbatim. Please disappear now."

He remains seated as tension builds between his shoulders and Santana turns back towards her computer already muttering about various inconsequential things. A hand clamps down on his shoulder startling him out of his apparent gaze and he twists around tilting his head up in order to look at the kind faced girl with aqua streaked hair.

"Come on, Ducky, it looks like you could use some greasy comfort food and I know just the place to go." She said, voice colored by a softly lilting east coast accent.

He allows her to guide him out of the office, down the stairs, and to the parking garage.

* * *

><p>That evening, sitting tucked against a wall with a purple octopus that stretched its length, sipping the thick, bitter sludge of coffee out of a chipped "I Heart NY," mug, he laughed more than he has in awhile. The next morning he had woken, body buzzing with not enough sleep, smiling and needing to write something, anything that he could put to music. A new optimism makes him itchy in his skin and his house is still devoid of any comforting warmth so he leaves, Ipod in hand, letting his feet find a thumping rhythm against concrete and dense air burns bright in his lungs. His muscles cramp slightly, legs feel rubbery, and there is a stitch in his side that is more painful than annoying but he reveled in this physical exhaustion that made him stop thinking. Temporarily, at least. But now, the lightness he felt this morning has faded into something to vague to recall and his body feels heavy, stiff, as he sits in the recording booth preparing for take number fifty-three. His voice is stinging hoarse, raw from overuse, when Kurt cuts him off mid-way through the first chorus.<p>

"Rhythm, Blaine, is a good thing. You should try it sometime." He said dryly, "again. Try not to be so sloppy this time."

Without breaking eye contact, he slips the headphones off. "Fuck you."

"Five-minutes, Blaine. And I expect you to stop trying to imitate John Mayer when you get back. Raspy does not work for you." Kurt called to his retreating back.

Water slips cool down his throat and he drowns in the sensation as he drains the bottle.

"You can't kill Hummel," Santana said leaning against the counter in the little kitchen. "I maybe good but I don't think I could get you off murder charges. Besides, I've heard that prison acoustics are horrendous. You could never record there."

He cracks open another bottle and reclines opposite her. "Come on, it would totally be justifiable homicide. I saw it on an episode of Bones."

It takes him by surprise when she tips her head back and laughs, long and loud, eyes squinting shut with the effort.

"Still don't think it will do much for your career." She said, laughter still trembling in her voice before she sobers. "Look, Blaine, I have known Kurt for a long time and he has reasons for leaving. Remember that it is never black and white, ok?" He nods dropping his eyes to the plastic top that he cannot seem to twist on correctly. "Good. Now get your ass back to that recording booth and record that damn song."

Kurt is waiting, guitar across his lap, slumped on the stool when Blaine reenters the sound proof room a good ten minutes after his allotted break time. Long fingers coax out random notes and the slide of fingers over nylon fills the little room. He steps further into the room, into Kurt's line of sight, and the music stops, reverb lingering, before fading completely.

"Santana cornered me," he offered as an explanation.

Kurt nodded, "She's good at that."

"Shall we start," Blaine asked stepping around him in order to grab the headphones.

"Look, Blaine," Kurt hesitated, repositioning the microphone, turning away from the younger boy, "I just want this song to be perfect."

"Why do you even care?" Blaine asked as Kurt makes to leave the cluttered room, "it's not like this song means anything to you. You are still going to leave."

Kurt stops, fingers brushing the chrome door handle, spine stiffening. He sighs, turning back to the boy sitting on the stool waiting, always waiting for the next blow to land, and steps in closer.

"I care, Blaine," he murmured reaching out to trail his fingertips across Blaine's knuckles, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist for a second. "Please, believe me."

And then he disappears out of the recording booth leaving Blaine swallowing around a lump lodged in his throat. It takes thirty or so more takes before Kurt calls it a day and they both leave quietly, side by side, lost in thought and worn weary.

* * *

><p>The rest of the week passes in tidal waves of resentment and anger and sadness that he sometimes cannot be distinguished from hope especially when feelings are mixed with exhaustion and frustration that continuously roll over him without a chance to breathe. It is almost cathartic when they finish the song sometime on Thursday but he doesn't feel that spark of elation like he did when they finished his first song and nothing could go wrong. But things go wrong. It's a guarantee. He knows this, expects this now, but it doesn't make letting go of what could have been any easier. Sometime in the middle of the week when days bleed into night and nights bleed into mornings and he cannot remember what it was like before everything, his parents come home with cold glances and a list of complaints prioritized by severity (the article is at the top of the least and they do not cede to reasoning). Acceptance comes late Thursday night long after he and Kurt part ways without a word, after practicing with a band that is beyond proficient but lacking any real connection to him or his music, after Ingrid and Ezra drag him to the little café in Venice Beach with the horrible coffee and the octopus on the wall, when his house is quiet and his body is claiming sleep but his hand is still jotting words that turns into lines, that build and sustain a heart of a song. It's a song for him and him alone. He loves it. Sleep overtakes him when it is not quite night but not yet morning and it is blissfully absent of everything. The blare of the alarm clocks jolts through the fogginess of a mind not use to waking in the early hours of the morning and it is a fight to drag and stretch his body into functioning movement. There is not enough time to do his hair when a persistent knock echoes through the empty house.<p>

Santana hands him an extra tall coffee and a smile when he creaks open the door. "Good Morning Frodo, I am glad to see that you have forgone the helmet of gel this morning and decided on the über stylish poodle look."

"Only for you Santana," he muttered after a long draw of fresh coffee.

"Cool it Dapper Dan." She said rolling her eyes.

He smiles softly settling into the cool leather seats of the town car and sips is coffee in silence as the driver pulls out into traffic.

* * *

><p>One Louder photography studio is all exposed brick and high ceilings with an unassuming black on white sign proclaiming its existence over large double doors that look out onto Venice Boulevard in downtown Culver City. Too loud music leaks out onto the sidewalk when Santana knocks twice and then pushes her way into the lofty, softly lit interior of the building. It's a large, rectangular mass of a floor plan, almost warehouse like in structure and suitability, with large skylights filtering, softening dusty light onto the various backdrops littered around the open space. A handful of people quietly move about the workspace dismantling and reassembling various pieces of equipment. He tucks himself away in a corner and watches as Santana disappears from his side and into a small corner office. A temporary silence falls unnoticed amongst the carefully controlled people that pass with pleasant smiles aimed in his general direction as one song fades into the next. But then the loose rhythm of the guitar swells around him and he starts to hum the slightly familiar melody before the words spill out of speakers hidden in the rafters. The voice that sings to him is soft, passive in a melancholy way and the words float down and around him in the particles of dust dancing in the air. He listens in that building with worn brick walls and a concrete floor with people moving about in an entirely predictable manner and those words mean something more than a collection of sounds that intertwine with chords that bounces off of the soft percussive heartbeat beating tempo with the rumble of bass. He feels a connection that twists in his gut and settles in his mind to be kept for reference and reverence.<p>

"_The days are long and they sing you a song_

_About how all your troubles have come._

_We hold it all inside, our sunlight ends._

_We'll never let it go, I think you will understand."_

The music twists and resonates and makes him feel when he doesn't want to and that is why he loves music. He sags against the worn rough wall and lets his gaze wonder through the streaks of orangey light over the sleekly mounted pictures of faces freezing on one large print mounted near the far corner. Its halos of morning colors, the juxtaposition of silhouettes, and the interaction of natural shapes paired with the images of finite things such as the profile of a woman, a microphone, the large, looming presence of a piano. It's simple and intense, perfect. He hears Santana approaching before he sees her and the angry clack of heels shakes him out of thought.

"You ready?" She asked without stopping the flicking of her fingers over the face of her phone.

Blaine nods and follows her into another side room teaming with clothes and gossiping woman. Then it is a rush of picking and discarding outfits before settling on items that are not unlike what he is already wearing and then it's the snapping orders to stay still or else he will be stabbed with a straight pin. Hands push-pull him away from the wardrobe section and deposit him into a make-up chair set in front of a large mirror. He inhales sharply when skilled fingers smear the cold thickness of foundation across his face in light, steady strokes and fingertips dive into his hair attempting to coax his curls into submission. His face feels heavy, foreign with the amount of product that the beauty team piled on before pushing him out of the door and back into the main room once more. Santana is waiting for him besides a tall man with too long hair curling over a plain gray t-shirt.

"Ah, you must be Blaine, my victim for the day." He said, a full smile sparking across his face. Blaine feels a smile spread uncontrolled across his face as he grasps the proffered hand. "Don't worry; I am not going to Gaga-ify you today."

The day progresses in shouted instructions and the permanent presence of black spots fluttering in his vision. The theme is simple with its white backdrop and he doesn't ask when they settle a pair of headphones on his head and wrap the length of cord around his forearms nor does he question the wardrobe department when they hand him a red cardigan to pull over the white v-neck and hand him an acoustic guitar. Chris directs him frame by frame with minute, sometimes subtle changes and his muscles scream in protest from holding unnatural positions for far too long. But then Chris calls a wrap and he is melting into a computer chair flicking through proofs. He doesn't recognize himself. That's a lie because, in the literal sense, it is the same map of features and lines that appears in the mirror on a daily basis. It's not the flawless composition that steals his breath, makes him blink hard. The photos expose him more than any song he had ever written and it makes him feel fragile, close to breaking. But fragile things are beautiful. Those photos are beautiful.

* * *

><p>"All of you out there are beautiful, beautiful people," Blaine rasped into the microphone, arms stretched wide embracing the room of screaming people. "Thank you so much for welcoming me here with open arms and open hearts. I fucking love all of you." He smiles a thank you to the stage technician that hands him his electric guitar and turns back to the audience securing the strap across his shoulder. "So this is going to be my last song for the night before the incredibly talented Slightly Toasted takes the stage and blows our minds with utter amazingness. This song is for all of you who don't know how to be yourself but keep trying, anyways. Oh, and this will be approximately the third time I have played all the way through so if I fall on my face don't laugh to hard."<p>

With that, he turns towards the band, bare toes curling into the area rug stretched over the exposed cords, and counts down. He can't help but move, sway, and bounce on his toes to the rhythm that flows around him in crunchy distortion that pings off walls and echoes back complete. His body vibrates with sound, with energy as he carves out time in the form of an electric heart and then lets it shatter raining jigsaw pieces that float down to the lower stratosphere so the audience can absorb it and radiate it back into the atmosphere. The crowd stands, sways, and embraces him with arms raised in solidarity and he etches his heart onto the sleeve of his shirt before oozing his soul into the hands of strangers to be examined, passed around, and, with a certain trust cultivated within the moment of connectivity, returned. They cradle his heart in cupped hands of acceptance and place it firmly back on the stage so that he can sing his emotional upheaval with only partially remembered words and the strength of memories.

"_It takes four days to get to like me_

_But two days to wanna leave._

_But the part that really gets me_

_Are the moments in between._

_Now I lie to get a little_

_And laugh at every little thing._

_They're high on information_

_But I am low on self esteem._

_I'm gonna try, try._

_Gonna try._

_Try to be myself_

_Although myself will wonder why_

_I'm gonna try, try._

_Gonna try._

_Try to be myself this time._

He climbs on top of the monitors, closes his eyes, and breathes when the first instrumental break brings the low rumble of bass and the steady reminder of drum beat. It is easy to get lost in the beat, the rhythm of the instance, and he does. He lets it take over, lets it control his fingers and his body, at least for a little while. But then he is stepping down, singing the last stanzas of the song staring directly out at the audience, and then the song is ending – after all, good things have to end – with a crash and a dull throb. There are two heartbeats of silence and he breathes, calms his body, before the crowd erupts and he feels complete. He floats off the stage, guitar slung around his back, ears deafened by the noise, and mind buzzing. The bassist claps him on the back and offers a smile in passing as the stage crew moves in the break down and set up for the next band. Someone hands him his shoes and he slips them on, comes back to himself a little in an anticlimactic burst of normalcy. The guitar is gently tucked away in its case and he is alone in the dark wings of the stage with the audience chanting praise audible through the walls. He collects himself, pieces everything back together in a way that resembles order with a roll of his shoulders. Everything is hazy after the overwhelming brightness of the stage lights but he can still recognize their silhouettes as they slip through the darkness. Charlie breaches the distance with a hug and whispered sentiments that mix with the echo of the crowd and renders them incomprehensible yet sincere. He can feel Nick's gaze, hunter green and guarded, on him as he releases Charlie. She squeezes his hand and retreats into the shadows.

"You came," Blaine said leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

"wouldn't miss it," Nick said meeting his gaze briefly before returning it to the floor. "I' m sorry for everything."

Blaine regards the boy fidgeting with the hem of his shirt movements made disjointed by nerves and regret. "OK."

Nick chews on the inside of his cheek, brows furrowing, head tipping upwards to meet Blaine's gaze through a shield of eyelashes. "Can we talk?"

"Not tonight." Blaine said decisively straightening from the wall, "but, maybe, tomorrow."

Nick nods, shoulders sagging, body caving in, "ok. Tomorrow."

Blaine watches the careful way Nick walks away with heavy, choppy steps, like the weight of the world is bearing down upon his shoulders, and let's himself forgive. The band passes in the aftermath of Nick's appearance in a procession of jangling limbs and tight smiles.

Ingrid throws a smile and wink over her shoulder. "After party at our casa, you better be there with your party hat on, Ducky."

Blaine laughs and follows them to the edge of the stage where he hides in the curtains and watches them transform from musicians into performers. They steamroll; energy building and building, self contained without the threat of spontaneous combustion, but snap, crackle, popping as they flex, shift, and mold themselves into a single entity that solely exists for this stage and this night. They leave nothing behind. A body slides into his space and he feels his breathe hitch before slowly turning and finding stormy eyes. Kurt jerks his head toward the far corner and picks his way towards seclusion with his hands tucked into the pockets of fitted plaid trousers.

"Thought you were leaving," Blaine half-yells over the crescendo of the band.

"I was," Kurt said stepping closer, thumb sweeping over a cheekbone before trailing a path down to his shoulder. "You are incredible, Blaine."

Blaine smiles timidly, a hint of tiredness seeping around the edges. "Did the last song have enough of a hook for you?"

Kurt purses his lips as if weighing his answer, forehead scrunching slightly in mock concentration, eyes flickering, "I suppose we should probably record it on Monday before the novelty wears off."

"Really?" He asked, voice slurring up the register with poorly disguised hope.

"Five o'clock," Kurt nodded with a grin before stepping backwards, "don't be late, Anderson."


End file.
